This is in response to Challenge #2 at Challenge Central.
Here's basically what it had to be- CHALLENGE 2: Does not have to be slash. Has to center around Mark or Roger. The other one has to at LEAST be mentioned, or he can be heavily involved, you choose. The requirement for this fic is DARK. Whether you take this to mean angsty, morbid, scary, sinister, or just plain dark, we do not care. Interpret it as you will. Characters still have to be in character for the most part, although we will allow them to act somewhat OOC if they're under the influence of something, if you find it necessary, and that thing doesn't necessarily have to be a narcotic. We love fics that shock the hell out of us, TRIPLE POINTS to the person who can shock us the most.
It took me a while to figure out something I thought was dark enough, but I finally did. Now onto the story!
Thunder and lightning- a nice surprise for a lonely cameraman. It filled the air with light and noise, making the man seem less alone. The blonde scurried about the loft and began a fire, right in the middle of the room. It didn't matter to him if the building went up in flames- it was abandoned other than him after all.
The snapping of the new fire and the boom of the thunder meshed together, creating a fiendish rhythm and the man tapped his foot to the beat, humming a soft tune to himself. Not like there was anyone there to listen.
He grinned as the fire grew larger. The blaze appeared in his glasses, making it seem like the flames were dancing through his now blinding red, but usually calming blue, eyes. He grinned deviously as the screenplays, notebooks, posters and sheet music were engulfed in the inferno.
But the papers did little good to feed the hungry fire, and it soon began to fade. In a rush of madness, the man dove to the floor and began to tear up the wooden planks. Eyes wide with terror and a driving craze, the man threw the jagged pieces into the fire, making it flare up and burn the ceiling.
Looking up with wide eyes the blonde cackled as the roof blaze consumed the upper floor and spread to the walls. The glass windows, misted over from the cold, shattered as the flooring near it caved in. A few pieces shot towards the man, piercing into his skin.
The man shouted in agony, pulling some serrated shards from out of his cheek and torso and dragging them across his wrists. The blood dripped down onto the slanting flood and slid into the flames. Entranced, the man dipped his fingers into the red liquid and rubbed it onto his face like war paint.
The conflagration took over the floor and the man fell through to the next level down. Not wanting to fight the pain shooting through his chest and legs, the man remained sprawled out on the floor, the blaze surrounding him. He remembered back. He remembered the passing of a drag queen, a dancer, an anarchist, a performance artist, a lawyer, a landlord, and finally a rocker.
He squeezed his eyes shut. His friends had abandoned them and now all he wanted was for them to return.
When the man's blue eyes fluttered open the rocker was standing above him, a smile on his face.
"Take me!" the filmmaker begged, "Take me away from this Hell!"
The rocker nodded and soon the flames overtook the building and both men fell into nothingness.